


Sheepskin Rugs

by hayesgeneration



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Background History, Children, F/M, Fluff, Implied Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-23 13:43:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hayesgeneration/pseuds/hayesgeneration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meredith puts the baby on a sheepskin rug when he is one and lies down next to him on her side, head propped up on one arm. Daddy is going to be home from work in an hour, little lamb, she tells him, are we going to wait up for daddy or do you want your nap? The boy’s face lights up, mouth wide and as open as his eyes, and Meredith snickers and pulls the little bundle of a child onto her belly and rolls onto the rug. John raises an eyebrow when he hangs his uniform jacket by the door and glances at the two on the floor. We’re sheep, aren’t we, lamb, Meredith coos, the boy laughs loudly in the folds of her dress, and John smiles, because his wife is still a mystery to him after five years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sheepskin Rugs

**Author's Note:**

> So I honestly don't know where this came from. Obviously I took some liberties with the names of Sheriff and Mama Stilinski - he's John, because duh, and I read one or two things where she was called Meredith, and I was instantly sold.

Meredith Stilinski is two years old when her dad sets her down on a sheepskin rug in the living room while he does the dishes. This is going to be Meredith’s earliest memory; the warm, woolly scent in her nose when she presses her face into it, and the curly softness between her pudgy fingers. Dad calls her his little lamb, and he ends up having to put the rug in her cot before Meredith will sleep.

 

Meredith meets a man named John on a camping trip one of her friends arranged when she is 23. It’s a humid summer evening when they all hike up backpacks and tents and rations and head for the woods.

John is soft-spoken and has laugh-lines when he smiles widely as she hands him a pack of biscuits and a tin mug of Irish coffee. They talk by the campfire most of the night, and when everyone else collapse in their tents in blessed-out exhaustion, some still with the faint lingering of pot and beer in their systems, Meredith and John pour water on the fire and fall asleep in each other’s arms in a single sleeping bag out in the open. Meredith likes the way John breathes against her forehead, and John enjoys the feeling of slim hands drawing patterns at the top of his spine.

 

John takes Meredith’s last name when they marry. He hasn’t got much family of his own anyway, he says, and it seems like the natural thing to do, unorthodox as it may be. For their honeymoon, they go hiking, and they see the Grand Canyon. Meredith sits with her back against John’s legs and looks up at the sky and tells him that she’s pretty sure there’s something up there no human being can explain. She’s not religious, but there’s something, she’s sure of it, and it’s beyond holy writings and human understanding.

John smokes his cigarette in silence, but his hand is in her hair, and Meredith knows he’s listening, because he always is, and she loves that.

 

John cries when Meredith gives birth to their first son at 27. She’ll tease him endlessly for that the rest of her life. The baby comes a week early, with a wail and an impressive amount of thrashing arms, eager, Meredith says, to start living, and John kisses the top of her head, and the top of the baby’s head, and promises his kid that his early start will be worth it.

 

Meredith puts the baby on a sheepskin rug when he is one and lies down next to him on her side, head propped up on one arm. Daddy is going to be home from work in an hour, little lamb, she tells him, are we going to wait up for daddy or do you want your nap? The boy’s face lights up, mouth wide and as open as his eyes, and Meredith snickers and pulls the little bundle of a child onto her belly and rolls onto the rug. John raises an eyebrow when he hangs his uniform jacket by the door and glances at the two on the floor. We’re sheep, aren’t we, lamb, Meredith coos, the boy laughs loudly in the folds of her dress, and John smiles, because his wife is still a mystery to him after five years. Meredith sees the smile, and she knows she’s going to want more kids, because it’s the smile of a man who is ready for more lamb skin rug-rolling children. John is ready for every rolling baby in the world if they too have Meredith eyes like their boy does.

 

When she’s 31, Meredith has her womb surgically removed. A tumour, benign but best taken out, and that’s that. Meredith is surprisingly fine with that, John is surprisingly fine with that, and Stiles is too young to understand it if they were to try and explain it.

The kid’s a handful and a half on a good day, and Meredith loves every second of it with every fibre of her being. His unlimited supply of energy seems to match her own, and even on days where it’s a bit much, he’ll pull a face and still make her laugh.

She goes out for dinner with a couple of friends on a Sunday and returns in the evening to find John passed out on the couch, the boy asleep on his stomach and the TV on. She carries Stiles to bed, puts the sheepskin in the cot with him, and goes back to the living room where she stretches out on her husband’s torso, slots her head under his chin and shimmies into his arms. John snuffs sleepily and fists a hand in the back of her shirt before drifting off again, and Meredith does the same, the faint smell of wool still on her fingers.

 

The first hospital visit, Stiles knows nothing about. He doesn’t know about the second, or the third, but after that, things speed up, and he enters the loop. Meredith wishes he didn’t have to. He’s nine, and John takes him, and his best friend, along to visit her when she gets committed the first time. Strangely, the thing that seems to scare her the most, is that she’s finally seeing John in the boy when there’s a serious look on his face and a stern set in his eyes. He and Scott read their homework choppily aloud to her in the hospital room, and when John takes Scott home, Stiles crawls up into her bed, and she whispers, sleep, lamb, and he does, while she strokes his bowl-cut hair.

Funnily, most of Meredith’s happiest memories are about snoozing, which is funny in the way that most of the time up until now, she has never been good at keeping still.

 

 

Stiles Stilinski is 34 and his hands smell like wool. On the sheepskin rug on the floor, Scott and Allison’s 5-year-old, Sophie, is pulling Erica and Boyd’s 2-year-old into her lap. Justin squeals with delight, wiggles in her grip, and with an excited little yip, hair puffs out all over the werebaby’s face. Sophie buries her face in furry cheek and makes smacking noises, and Justin squeals louder as they topple over on the rug. Stiles sits back on his haunches and pulls a plush bear into his lap. He’s a great babysitter, no matter how many times Boyd complains that he’d like to have his kid back alive and not passed out from exhaustion, happy as it may be. It’s not Stiles’ fault anyway, he totally blames the 5-year-old with the puppy-dog eyes; he can’t deny her anything.

“Are you really going to let her eat him?” Derek puffs against the back of his neck when he creeps up behind Stiles like the creepy creeper he is, and Stiles leans back into him.

“I’m considering just letting her. It’s awfully cute,” he replies as Derek plucks the toy out of his hands and pulls him entirely back to rest against his torso. Stiles puts his hands up on Derek’s knees like the arm rests on a particularly comfortable chair. He glances back at Derek at the same time Justin stumbles into a counter-attack, little claws and all, Sophie going down in mock-surrender.

“Hey,” Stiles whines and brings a hand back to stroke Derek’s smooth cheeks.

“You shaved.” Derek snorts against his jaw line.

“It’s going gray,” he mutters, like it’s an embarrassing secret, because he’s a bit of an idiot sometimes. Stiles knows, he sleeps with the man for Christ’s sake.

“I like it. It’s sexy,” Stiles says and rubs his head back against Derek’s who just snuffles against Stiles’ throat again and loops his arms around his torso. His breath is warm on Stiles’ skin.

“You bought a new sheepskin,” he remarks, amusement evident in his voice. Stiles shrugs the best he can with a grown werewolf wrapped around him like a parachute backpack. He has heard _every_ conceivable joke on the subject since he showed his old one to Derek when he was 22, mostly because Derek sniffed it out when they were packing Stiles’ things down and into a moving van. The lamb and the wolf, wolf in lambskin, the whole shebang. Stiles would lie if he said he wasn’t amused by the concurrence. He’s always had sheepskins; it’s a family thing, a safe thing. Derek can stuff his smug comments where the sun doesn’t shine.

Sophie comes trouncing up to them then, lamb skin in hand, and flings it over Stiles’ head.

“The wolf is coming, hide!” she yells, and that’s about all the warning Stiles has before there’s a werebaby flinging himself into his lap. Stiles gasps dramatically and swoons in Derek’s arms.

“No! The wolf is going to get me! What will a poor sheep do?” he cries, and Sophie howls with laughter and jumps onto Derek’s back for protection when Justin growls happily, yips, and crawls up Stiles’ chest, snapping his teeth.

“I don’t think it can do much,” Derek counters, and Stiles can feel the coarse fur sprouting down his face against the back of his neck.

“I sent my clever wolf comrade ahead to lure it into my trap, and now we’re going to eat it!”

Stiles manages to get a satisfying glimpse of the greying fur at Derek’s cheeks before he’s being pushed down and drowning in a sea of werewolf and wool, Derek growling, Justin howling and Sophie yelling “eat it, eat it!”

Stiles has no complaints. He’s always been _someone's_ lamb, after all. 


End file.
